


Skin and Bones

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Bulimia, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Protective Stephanie Brown, This is Bad, Vomiting, because TECHNICALLY I'm not supposed to be writing anything, but he's trying his best, it is merely a squibble, it was written fast okay, so this doesn't count as a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Damian peers at Drake closely. His eyes are red and his complexion is a shade paler than it should be, even with the spook. “Are you ill?”“What?”“Ill. Diseased. Infected with parasites.” He makes note of the dark circles under Drake’s eyes too; the way his cheekbones are sharper than usual. “I heard you vomiting.”Drake’s shoulders stiffen, but he covers it by crossing his arms. “I just have a little food poisoning. It’s fine.”
Relationships: Stephanie Brown/Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne
Comments: 23
Kudos: 575





	Skin and Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Cliché title? Check. 
> 
> Lasting not even four days after promising myself that I would take a break from writing to focus on college stuff? Check. 
> 
> Bad writing that breaks every "show, don't tell" rule out there because I was rushing? Check, check, check. 
> 
> (This whole thing is only because I was listening to Marianas Trench and one of the songs called "Skin and Bones" went really hard and inspired me to write stuff. Whoopsie.)

This is the _third_ _time_ Alfred has lost the bell from his collar in as many weeks. What is it with animals and resenting tasteful decoration? Spite is his engine as Damian scours the manor’s carpeting, crawling on his hands and knees at a detective’s pace while the foolish cat pads along beside him.   
  
After nearly half an hour of searching, Damian finds the bell in front of _Drake’s_ bedroom, of all places. He sits up and fastens the bell back onto Alfred’s collar.   
  
“This had better not be a sign that you’re in cahoots with Drake, Pennyworth. We’re going to be having a very stern discussion later about your loyalty.” Alfred headbutts him in the chin.   
  
Pressing a quick kiss to one fluffy, twitching ear, Damian takes the cat up in his arms and stands. He prepares to go back to his Minecraft tournament, only to stop when he becomes aware of what began as a background drone, but that he is now certain is the sound of someone retching. He looks back at Drake’s door.   
  
He places Alfred back on the ground. “Stay here,” he orders. Alfred blinks slowly and licks his paw. “Good boy.”   
  
Clandestinely Damian cracks open the door and creeps into the room, finding it devoid of life apart from a moldy sandwich sitting in the empty fish tank. What a pig. Light shines from under the bathroom door.  
  
Quietly, Damian presses one ear to the center panel and listens. Inside he can hear what is undeniably the sound of Drake gagging and coughing up what used to be the evening’s dinner. Damian wrinkles his nose and pulls back. “Eugh.”   
  
After about a minute or so the retching stops, replaced with heavy gasps. Damian steps back. The toilet flushes, the sink runs, and then the door opens to reveal Drake, looking as haggard as Damian has ever seen him. Or maybe _this_ is the default and Drake has secretly been an expert makeup artist all this time.   
  
He sees Damian standing there in the middle of the room—hands on his hips like a scolding mother—and yelps, one hand flying to his heart like a frightened old woman. “Holy _crap,_ dude. You’re lucky I wasn’t holding a _weapon.”_  
  
“You should work on your reflexes. If I were a burglar I could have already shot you by now, and no one would have any idea what happened until they found you the next morning.”   
  
“Thanks for the advice.” He points at the door. “Now get out.”  
  
Damian stands his ground, peering at Drake closely. His eyes are red and his complexion is a shade paler than it should be, even with the spook. “Are you ill?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Ill. Diseased. Infected with parasites.” He makes note of the dark circles under Drake’s eyes too; the way his cheekbones are sharper than usual. “I heard you vomiting.”  
  
Drake’s shoulders stiffen, but he covers it by crossing his arms. “I just have a little food poisoning. It’s fine.”   
  
“Pennyworth hasn’t cooked a meal incorrectly in the entire time he’s been alive.” Which is a good millennium, give or take.  
  
Drake pushes past him to the door, knocking Damian’s elbow on the way. “It was from earlier in the day.” He opens the door. “Now if you wouldn’t mind playing in your _own_ room?”   
  
Damian could stay. He could argue to his last breath if he really wanted to. But he goes, not wanting to be in this bacteria-infested gateway to Garbage Hell any longer than necessary. He’s careful not to touch Drake and his contagion as he ducks under his arm.   
  
“You’d better not get me sick,” he warns. “I have an arrangement with Kent tomorrow.”   
  
Drake rolls his eyes, as if there’s some inside joke Damian is missing. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
That night, everyone is suiting up for patrol. Everyone except for Drake, of course, who is wasting everyone’s time by lollygagging upstairs. (Or maybe _literally_ gagging. Who knows these days.)  
  
“Why are we even letting Drake come tonight?” he voices finally. “He’s sick.”   
  
Richard gives him an odd look. “Really? I saw him an hour ago and he looked fine to me.”   
  
“Obviously you weren’t looking closely enough, because I found him vomiting after dinner.”   
  
Todd, who has been tying the laces of his boots up until now, content in his own daydreams that probably consist of severed heads and bad table manners, looks up. His brows are knitted, but it’s more in disbelief than the usual anger. “Are you fucking serious?”   
  
“Yes, it was disgusting.”   
  
“For the love of—” He drops the laces and straightens up. “I can’t believe this.” He looks ready to storm out of the cave—for what reason, Damian can’t fathom—but is stopped by Richard grabbing his shoulder.   
  
“Cool your jets for a second. We don’t know for sure that’s what it was. We should talk to Tim first before we jump to conclusions.”   
  
“You said you saw him yourself and he didn’t look sick. I thought he was over this shit?”   
  
“So did I, but we can’t just go and confront him, guns blazing. Last time you tried that it just made everything worse.”   
  
...Damian is beginning to think this conversation is about more than Drake’s illness. At first he was prepared to sit back and watch Drake get chewed out for letting himself get sick, what with the asplenia and all. But from the way these two talk, stealing glances at Damian and choosing vague wording on purpose, he’s positive a loop has been formed here, and he was not invited inside it.   
  
“I knew he was getting thinner,” Todd says, “but I thought it was just stress or something. Has he said anything to you?”   
  
Richard shakes his head.   
  
Drake chooses this uncomfortable moment to come prancing down the stairs, unaware of the shitshow awaiting him. Now that Todd has mentioned it, Damian can see the way Drake’s t-shirt hangs off his ribs; the way his sweatpants are corded tight. Just how sick _is_ he?  
  
“What the fuck, dude?” Todd demands, turning on Tim. “You told me you stopped.”   
  
Drake stops in his tracks, looking for all the world like a man about to be convicted for a crime he was sure he’d get away with. Then his eyes cut to Damian and any doubt there may have been in them is overtaken by cold betrayal.   
  
“You little _shit,”_ he hisses. “You weren’t supposed to _tell_ anyone.”  
  
Todd cuts in, “How long has this been going on?”   
  
“It’s _nothing._ Whatever Damian told you guys is a lie. I just had a bad taco.”  
  
“Tim,” Richard says, more gentle than Todd knows how to be. “We’re not mad at you. We won’t even tell Bruce if we don’t have to. All we want is the truth.” Either they planned the good cop/bad cop routine beforehand, or Richard is just alarmingly adept at providing an antithesis to Todd’s brutish nature. “How long have you been doing this?”   
  
Drake crosses his arms; a textbook defensive posture. He looks at the floor. “I don’t know. A few months, maybe?”  
  
“Why?” Todd says. “I thought we worked through all this shit already.”   
  
“We did, I just…it’s hard, okay? I really was trying to get better.”  
  
Damian has officially lost the plot of this conversation.   
  
“Would anyone like to clue me in, here?” he asks. All eyes shift to him, like they’d forgotten he was here.   
  
“None of your _business,”_ Drake snaps.   
  
Richard takes charge and gives Damian a tight smile, trying to reassure. “It’s nothing, Dami. Why don’t you go find Bruce and tell him you guys can go ahead without us? We’re going to hang back and hash this out.”   
  
“But I want to know what’s wrong with Drake.” It comes out more whiny than intended, but can you blame him? There is no worse feeling in the world than being ostracized from a conversation, as if he’ll accept the snub and sit back with his LEGOs like any other child. It’s _insulting._  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Richard says at the same time that Todd says, “Mind your own business, kid.”  
  
Tim takes advantage of the attention lapse and storms back upstairs. Todd sighs and charges after him. “C’mon, Tim, it’s _okay.”_  
  
Damian and Richard stare each other down. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me the truth now and save me the effort of scrounging it up myself?”  
  
Richard ruffles his hair, unapologetic. “Sorry, kiddo.” He goes to follow the other two, leaving Damian alone with no company but his own unanswered questions.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
The next day, Brown comes over. That in itself is far from an absurdity, as just getting  _ rid  _ of her takes skill no earthly being possesses. No, the peculiarity comes from the fact that she arrives at the crack of dawn and sticks to Drake like a seed caught on a sweater. She invites herself to stay for breakfast, to which no one but Damian objects.    
  
Drake is virtually no different from last night aside from being quieter, but that’s just a bonus as far as Damian is concerned. Still, he burns to know what silent messages are being transferred every time Drake meets eyes with Todd or Richard. What issue they worked out among themselves that is  _ clearly  _ not over, but no one talks about it. Not where Damian can hear.    
  
Brown hardly leaves Drake alone all day. Again, this isn’t out of the ordinary, but today there’s an underlying meaning to every action. She holds Drake’s hand through breakfast, giving him encouraging smiles every time he looks ready to bolt from the table. What, did the fool overcome some peanut allergy and Damian missed his invite to the party?    
  
After breakfast, Brown stays to play Smash with Drake—on  _ Damian’s  _ game system, mind you—well into the afternoon. And all the while, she doesn’t stop...comforting him? Is that what it is? She keeps kissing his cheeks and stroking his wrists, whispering in his ear that she’s proud of him.    
  
The others are the same way, only they’re less disgusting about it. Pennyworth prepares a snack of fried pickles midway through the afternoon, even though Damian could have  _ sworn  _ those infernal slabs of grease were banned from the manor, which was hardly mourned since nobody but Drake enjoys them anyway.    
  
And Richard said yesterday that Father would not be brought into the matter, yet it’s clear he has an idea of what’s been going on. Whether he picked up on the eggshell-cracking tension by himself or one of the eldest brothers snitched, it doesn’t seem to matter, for he doesn’t bring it up. He treats Drake exactly as he would otherwise, only there is a new softness to it.    
  
Of all of Damian’s siblings, Drake is the one with the brain closest in inner workings to Father’s. They run in the same vein, so Father doesn’t fiercely overprotect like Grayson or play up the role of security guard like Todd does. He gives Drake space when he wants it and somehow senses when he doesn’t.    
  
The effort is wasted on Drake. All of their efforts are.    
  
Everyone in the damn household is in on the mystery of Drake’s ailment but Damian, and they might as well be telling him to his face that they hold no respect for him whatsoever. What business do they have keeping secrets from him, like he’s nothing more than a child poking around where he doesn’t belong?    
  
Brown leaves late in the afternoon, parting from Drake with a kiss. “I love you.” She says it like she means it. “Call me if your head gets weird again, okay? I mean it.”    
  
“I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry.” His cheeks are dusted with pink.    
  
She pecks him on the nose. “I like worrying about you. Besides, I’m a superhero. It’s my job to swoop in and save the day when my boyfriend’s in peril.”    
  
There are not  _ nearly  _ enough receptacles in the galaxy to hold Damian’s vomit.    
  
Finally the two part, and Brown makes it to the foyer of the manor, only to stop halfway to the front door. “I know you’re there, Damian.”   
  
He steps out from the shadows. “What’s wrong with him?”    
  
Brown comes closer and leans down to his level. “Do my eyes deceive me? Is Damian Wayne admitting that he actually  _ cares  _ about his big brother? I never thought I’d see the day.”    
  
“I do  _ not  _ care about him. I simply want dirt, and you’re going to give it to me.”   
  
Brown crosses her arms. “Tim has an eating disorder. It’s an illness where—”   
  
“I know what eating disorders are. What do you take me for?” He never imagined someone like  _ Drake _ having one, though. And he honestly thought it would take more cajoling to get her to spill, but he’s not about to waste the generosity. “So...what? He eats food and then he pukes it all back up?”    
  
“Bulimia, yeah. It’s something he’s been struggling with since I met him. A couple years back he managed to get it under control, but it’s come back.”    
  
“Why? Drake isn’t fat.” If anything, he could stand to  _ gain  _ a few pounds. He’s more scarecrow than human at this point, with limbs made of chicken bones.    
  
_ “We  _ know that, but Tim doesn’t. And even if he did, I think it’s more about the control aspect of it more than anything. And the only reason I’m even  _ telling  _ you all of this is because I know that if I don’t, you’re just going to go confront Tim on your own and make him feel worse than he already does.”    
  
She isn’t wrong. “Is it fixed now?”    
  
Brown smiles. “It’s sweet to know that you care. But...no. Not completely. This isn’t the kind of thing you can expect someone to recover from overnight. It’s a mental thing. It takes time.” The smile drops. “So I’d better not hear about you being an ass to Tim about it, or I swear to sweet baby Jesus I will break into this house and put slugs in your mouth while you’re sleeping. Don’t test me.”    
  
Damian rolls his eyes. “Presumptuous of you to think I _ care. _ Drake being a weakling is old news.”    
  
But as the days pass, Damian finds that he can’t stop thinking about it. Not when he sits in his Father’s armchair and peers at Drake over the top of his book, watching him with eagle-like intensity as the teen wastes time on his phone. Or when they’re training with Grayson and Damian can’t help fixating on the pronounced dips in Drake’s collar bones. On how he goes about his business like normal, as though the disorder were merely a figment of Damian’s imagination.    
  
But he knows it’s not when he walks into the cave and finds Drake sitting in front of the Batcomputer, glaring at the blueberry smoothie Grayson brought him almost an hour ago—still untouched. And Damian stops beside him, not entirely knowing what he’s stopping for.    
  
Under the new surveillance Drake goes back to the report he was working on, ignoring the smoothie’s existence. “What do you need, Damian?”   
  
Damian doesn’t know what to say until the words are already leaving his mouth. “You’re not fat, Drake. I don’t think you could be if you tried.” And he walks away.    
  
He also definitely does  _ not  _ feel warm satisfaction settle in his chest when he hears a quiet, “Thanks, Damian.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, fellers. If you leave a comment and tell me what gender you think the letter S is, a fairy godmother shall fly down from her apartment in the clouds and give you seventeen rat babies in a handbasket. 
> 
> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
